Get Tyler
by Dead End Signs
Summary: What did Sam Tyler do to provoke killings of people who are associated with him hours, sometimes, minutes before their deaths?  Some of these people only utter mere words to him, and are instantly targeted.  Who hates DI Tyler enough to kill like this...?


OK, so I managed to throw this together in an afternoon. Didn't take long, so don't expect much, please! Forgive me for any typing errors, too. They happen sometimes! ;) Okay, so what is going on here eh? Well this is a Life on Mars fic. It's set during either series 1 or series 2, whichever you prefer. Sam is in a coma, don't you know? Or is he? I know some people haven't seen the finale yet. There are no spoilers in this story, the plot is entirely my own and isn't related to any episodes unless it's a verbal reference or something. All characters belong to the almighty BBC and Kudos, except the little incidental characters I created to move the storyline along! On with the story, then! Hope it's up to standards...

**Get Tyler - Chapter 1**

"Sam?"

"Yeah, Phyllis, go ahead, what have we got?" DI Sam Tyler responded; a sure-fire serious expression across his features. His voice was wavering; the skin on his knuckles, a bright white, and his cheeks flushed with a nervous red. His chest heaved with shallow breathing, and he didn't even dare reach up with his sleeve to wipe the perspiration from his forehead.

Regaining his slipping grip on the steering wheel of the Cortina, and shifting the car into the next gear fitfully, Sam sent his own vision whirling looking at the streets behind the gleaming windshield. Colours, buildings, people, went flying past in a fury of blurs. The rhythmic humming of the engine was not entirely soothing his nerves, more like spurring on his adrenaline. The mid-afternoon sun was glaring at him through the glass of the windows and reflecting from the wing mirrors, but even they couldn't provide a distraction.

"Sam?" the voice crackled once more. Sam rolled his eyes and took his eyes off the roads for a split second to glance down scolding at the radio before whipping his head back up again in a panic.

"What is it Phyllis? Talk to me!" he replied hurriedly, blinking his eyes, but not removing his vision from the roads and turns ahead. He veered the Cortina around another corner, around another bend, through another alleyway. It was like a labyrinth of red brick.

"Come on, say something at me! Anything! Just—Christ!" he yelled, slamming down on the brakes and turning the steering wheel so hard to the left the car's wheels screamed and protested. The car careered forward on its side, front wheels pushing toward the ground, back wheels juddering and whining like reluctant dogs. That same screech of fresh rubber and the smell of the dirt clouding behind the wheels were ever present. Sam shot an awestruck look through the window at his side. The kid that had run out into the road was standing there, a dumb, vacant look on his pallid face. Sam couldn't even spare a second for a relieved look and feeling, as the car was still responding slowly. It drove like a toilet, no matter what Gene Hunt said in her favour. No cruise control, no CD player, and the air conditioning was a little handle on the door for the window that one had to roll down in order to get smacked in the face by the Manchester air.

The Cortina suddenly lurched forward one last time and threw Sam back in his seat with an almighty jolt. He sat there, heart pounding, pulse racing, adrenaline wearing off, for a few long minutes, counting every thirty seconds.

"Sam?" that voice called, "Sam, please, I know you can't hear me…"

"I can hear you. I can hear you for Christ's sake!" Sam said, almost tiredly. He pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel absent-mindedly, and resisted a good grimace.

"Sam, you must try and wake up. The doctors won't say it to my face, but they're losing hope! Don't make them doubt you Sam. You have to show them you can do this. That you can pull through. Remember that Saturday afternoon when you were four? And you slipped and fell over in the play park, and sprained you ankle? Your dad gave you a piggyback home? And you wouldn't let go? Dad told you off, didn't he?" the voice gave a sound that was between a sob and a quivering laugh, "Well you have to not let go now. You have to cling on, hang on. Hold on for your dear life. When the going gets tough…" the voice crackled, fizzed and faded away.

"The tough gets going…" Sam finished, his throat was tight and his eyes ached. The radio broke out into white noise suddenly, and Sam started, his head snapping toward it. He slouched in his chair when he realized it wasn't going to say anymore. That was all he was going to get. Some words of hope. They had been like a melody played on a piano in the silence. He forced a brave smile and sat up painfully. He unclipped the seat belt that had a tight hold on him and leaned forward, inhaling deeply.

"Sam?"

Sam's heart leapt and he sat back with a jump. He looked at the radio and picked up the receiver.

"Yeah? I'm here. I'm here, I'm always here."

"You weren't five minutes ago, boss. What the hell do you think you're doing?" Phyllis' voice rang clear and true through the radio and Sam felt an urge to just switch it all off and drive on. He'd lost the car he tried tailing five minutes ago. He'd seen it tear past the station, and he was the only one who spotted it. There wasn't time to bugger about asking permission. He pulled a Gene Hunt and started at a run, snatching the Cortina keys right out of the Guv's hand. He'd pay for that one, but he'd dashed out into the car park like a mad thing, and even his rational thinking wasn't bothering to wake up. The Cortina. Fastest car on the beat, it was no Porsche, hell, it wasn't even a Ford Ka, but it was good enough. He'd slipped in, turned the keys in the ignition, slammed a foot down on the clutch, put her into gear and was off like a bat outta hell.

If he had managed to catch the little gang in their Capri, then he would have returned to CID with a grin and met with the same, but they had known the alleys and the rat runs, and he had lost track within minutes of giving chase. Then he had heard his mother on the radio…

"I lost 'em, Phyllis. I'm coming back. Tell the Guv…actually don't tell him anything." Sam answered finally.

"Don't tell the Guv, what, Tyler? That you smashed up my pride and joy, you little bastard? If that car ain't mint when you bring her back, I'm gonna slap you so 'ard you won't know what's up from down! Am I clear?!" the distinctive voice of Gene Hunt bellowed. Sam recoiled just hearing the voice, and imagining the enraged look on Hunt's face.

"Crystal, Guv." Sam stated blankly. He threw the radio down and it buried itself somewhere behind the passenger's seat, not daring himself to say anything but a confirmation he understood orders. He got out of the car as if the thing were on fire and tripped himself up, landing on the road painfully. He got up, brushed down his jacket, rolled his shoulder just to check it was still there and leaned against the Cortina, hands in pockets and scowl on face.

"What were y'thinking, you stupid twat! You could have killed m'boy!" a sudden shout echoed. Sam spun about and across the road, standing behind a battered old gate, was a middle aged blonde, past her prime. Clutched in her vice-like grip was the same boy that had been staring, mouth agape, as the car skid past him. Sam bowed his head and frowned to himself. He fumbled in his jacket for the badge that seemed to give consent to do both sod-all and whatever he liked in this city. When he produced it and flashed it at the women as soon as he had crossed the street to approach her, he looked down at the boy with an apologetic expression.

"I'm very sorry, Miss. I lost control of my vehicle when your boy raced out into the road. I suggest you keep two eyes on him, rather than just the one." He said to her, an ever so slight hint of sarcasm singing in his voice.

"You bloody bastard! How dare you talk to me like that, police scum! Don't you 'Miss,' me, you great flyin'…" she spat in response, her bland hair standing on end, and her cheeks the same colour as her lipstick. She grasped her son firmly by the collar and spun him about, shoving him down the garden path and ushering him inside. The slamming of the door resonated about the street mockingly.

The gentle sound of 'Lindisfarne' emitted from a window somewhere far above, and Sam craned his head up to locate it. He wasn't entirely interested, but it was a pleasant little song.

_Meet me on the corner,_

_Where the lights are coming on,_

_And I'll be there; I promise I'll be there._

Sam let the song play out, and he returned to the Cortina, cheerless. Gene's car was never mint to begin with. The back seats were torn and the front seats were no better. It was just the outside of the car, the gleaming bonnet, and the radiant flanks, as well as those hubcaps, which were cared for. First impression was everything. Sam opened the door, not a creak, not a strain, and slid back into the driver's seat. He shut the door roughly and turned the keys in the ignition. He did it a little slower than he had done earlier, of course. The car was unaffected by the sudden appliance of brakes. The wheels were put under a bit of stress, but hopefully no damage had been done. He had to treat this car like a china ornament because bloody Gene Hunt made it so, and the DI had to obey.

Sam brought his fist down on the steering wheel and listened to the thump of his hands hitting the leather. The humming of the engine didn't growl a warning at him; it just carried on doing what it was supposed to. Sam Tyler had to do what he was supposed to, so he pulled the gear stick into reverse, foot down on clutch, foot down on accelerator, gears back into second, and foot back on the accelerator gently taking the car forward and turning a corner to get back onto a more mainstream road.

The mesmerizing whirring of the engine, the grinding of the gears sticking every once in a while, that odd rattling noise that was more than likely the exhaust, the sound of traffic filtering past in the opposite direction…all of it just put DI Tyler in a depressive daze as he drove back to the station carefully. It was only when the sharp blast from a car behind him woke him out of his reverie did he speed the Cortina on and pick up the pace.

Pulling into the station car park made Sam as mortified as this era's Elton John in a modern optician. He eased the Cortina into its space and got out, slamming the door as loud as he could. He then proceeded to storm up the steps, through the main doors, into the lobby, and the usual route to ascend to the floor he found himself working in all hours.

Throwing open those doors assertively, a back draft of smoke greeted him and Sam had to stop himself staggering back away from its choking hold. The typical sneers and coughs emanated from the officers sitting at their desks, feet up, magazines on laps and cigarettes jutting from mouths. If Sam hadn't already managed to restrain himself from doing it, he'd have had a fit at the state of the place. He had already done that anyway; his first day. He gazed about CID, its murky grey mist hanging like washing out to dry, its dull, bored looking officers, the cabinets strewn with inappropriate images, desks with piles upon piles of unfinished and unlooked at paperwork. It was the Stone Age compared to 33 years in the future. Come to think of it, 33 years wasn't that long a time, yet so much had progressed. Not deciding to dwell on the matters of the future compared to this place, Sam continued enroute to Gene's office. He could see there were at least two people in there. Glancing about for a last time, Sam spotted DS Carling and DC Skelton lurking in a corner. Ray met his eyes and went back to talking with Chris, who glanced over to Sam with a dim-witted expression, only to be struck on the back of the head by Ray. No mystery as to what DS had said to DC, then.

Sam straightened his jacket and assumed a more casual gait as he shoved his shoulder on the door to the Guv's domain.

"Speak of the devil, Phyllis! Would you be a darlin' and take the keys off rebel Sam?" Gene said; his face a picture of emotionless sarcasm. Phyllis gave him one look and strode to Sam, ripping the keys from his outstretched hand.

"I'll be a darlin' when yer a gentleman, how about that?" she stated, a furious look on her face. With that, she left, and from then on it was just Gene and Sam.

Gene sauntered over to Sam, a creepily friendly look plastered across his face. Sam remained where he was. The Guv put one arm around Sam as if to congratulate him, but seconds later, had shoved Tyler up against one of the roofless walls, his arm placed firmly across the smaller man's throat.

"Thought you'd be funny and take my second wife out for a spin? Thought you'd get away with it? 'Oh don't worry Sam, no bother, just my bloody CAR!' You have a lot to answer for! Not only did you heroically go after the crims with someone else's wheels, you didn't even catch 'em! You have to be a crap driver to not outrun 'em!" Gene hissed, putting on a bit of pressure to Sam's neck every now and then.

"No, I have to be a safe driver, there's a difference!" Sam rebuked tryingly.

"Safe and crap drivers are one and the same, Tyler! You happen to be both! I'm gonna inspect that car, and if there is anything more than a _leaf_ caught in the windscreen wipers, I'll send you to Hell with a 'no return' sticker slapped on your forehead!" Gene finished, shoving his arm right into Tyler's throat before letting him go, and ignoring the other man's wheezing and coughing as he left.

"No probs, Guv. I'm already there…" Sam managed, as he straightened himself up after bending over double with a hand to his throat.

"Is that what this place is to you, Sam?" Annie perked up behind him. She had opened the door as soon as Hunt had closed it. She teetered on the edge of the threshold, afraid to step in, but had heard what Sam had said.

Sam looked to her, still massaging his throat, and he tried a sincere smile. That didn't work, so he tried a pathetic glum look instead, which worked better for him.

"At the moment it is, yeah." Sam said, finally managing to find his voice again, even if it was a little weak and hoarse. He dropped his arm to his side, and Annie stepped away from the door to allow her superior passage. He didn't say a thing as he walked past her, and he knew he'd regret it later. Sam headed straight to his desk and began wracking his brain for the last place he saw the blue 1962 Capri. The car was old for even this time period. It wouldn't leave the city. He started sketching out a half hearted map, but ended up throwing the pencil in his hand across the room in a brief fit of anger. It made a 'click' sound as it bounced from something he couldn't see.

He felt someone place a hand on his shoulder, and he looked up into those gentle eyes belonging to Annie. She gave him a supportive smile and he fleetingly returned it. He bowed his head and examined the crude map he'd created from memory, but Annie spoke and his attention was back on her again.

"Sam, you look tired. I don't care what time of day it is…"

"It's five past three, Annie."

"I don't care if it's five past three or five past midnight, I want you to go home." She told him, a stern but concerned lilt in her accent.

Sam opened his mouth to object to her proposition, but the sound of the CID doors flying open and rebounding back on themselves made him turn his head fast as a bird's.

"Boss, Annie love, been an attack down on Fleeter Avenue. Woman and child involved. You might want to drop what you're doing and come down, just a suggestion of course!" Phyllis announced, out of breath and leaning on the door for support before heading off at a rapid jog, her heels clicking away into nothing.

Sam looked up at Annie but she was halfway across the room already, her coat half slung on and her bag across her shoulder. He took a quick look at the map he'd made up, and noticed one of the places that he had labelled. He'd drawn a square for the Cortina, and had even coloured it gold. The square that was outside the house where the middle aged woman had yelled at him was 'parked' right next to some scruffy shorthand that read; 'Fleeter Av.'

His eyes widened and he folded up the map, stuffing it in his jacket pocket. He got up, shoved the chair under his desk and headed on out of CID at full pelt in order to rendezvous with Annie and Phyllis. The image of his own handwriting scrawled next to the square substituting for a car was still turning over in his mind…


End file.
